Pyramid Solitaire
by somethingsdont
Summary: EC. It's easier to grieve without laying it all out like a game of pyramid solitaire, only to realize that the ace at the apex has no matching queen.


The first burn comes two days after Speed's funeral.

She's asleep on his couch when he enters his condo after shift. He has to take a look behind him to ensure he hasn't lost his mind and somehow driven all the way to Bal Harbour, and no, he hasn't. This is his home and she's lying there in a way that makes him question the couch's real proprietor.

He approaches, almost afraid that he's having a hallucination, but when his hand comes to rest on her shoulder and she jerks awake, a deer-in-headlights look about her, he has to smile.

Immediately, she launches into an apology, cheeks tinted as she explains that she had meant to call but that his phone had been off. With a nervous chuckle, he asks her how she had gotten in.

"Speedle's spare," she says quietly and that kills the conversation faster than any bullet could've killed their friend.

Something changes; the air is denser and hangs above them like a swollen rain cloud, threatening to spill heavy droplets across their skin. It'd be fitting; neither has cried since the funeral, and maybe lack of release is what keeps them on the brink of sanity. Maybe.

She doesn't elaborate on why she's there and he doesn't ask for an explanation. Doesn't need one; easier to grieve without laying it all out like a game of pyramid solitaire, only to realize that the ace at the apex has no matching queen.

He begins to perform mundane tasks around the condo, and presumably, she's staying for dinner so he tries to cook something passable but finds he'd been living off TV dinners for the past week.

He's reaching for takeout menus when suddenly, she's standing behind him and her hands are snaking around his torso, fingertips fumbling for his belt buckle before he can react. She's stronger than he'd imagined, and when she spins him around and tiptoes to press her groin against his, eyes fixed on his lips, he realizes that she's a lot more unreserved, too.

Desire hits him first, followed closely by confusion, which is why his hands instinctively cup her butt cheeks before he manages to ask her what she's doing. It comes out a croak or maybe a growl, but her scent is making it hard for him to concentrate on anything.

"I need you to go along with it," she whispers, and that should've been his first indication that something has gone terribly wrong, but he's too shocked to stop her, too drunk on her proximity to protest, especially as her lip traces his and she guides him back to the couch and pushes him onto his back.

Her gun holster presses against his abdomen until she takes off her belt.

But nothing happens, and she leaves before the leather has a chance to burn his skin.

o o o

The next morning, she greets him with a wide grin and begins telling him about the new case they've been assigned. Stab wound to the chest, she tells him, eyes dark. She looks down at the file and begins reciting autopsy details.

He aches for her and opens his mouth, fear yearning to spill forth. He wants to tell her about his sleepless night, about how insane she had made him, and more than anything, he needs confirmation that nothing's changed (everything has). But he doesn't get the chance.

"Not now, Eric." Admonishing, and she doesn't even look up from her file.

His apology catches in his throat, chokes him. "I'm—"

"Eric."

"_When_?"

She doesn't answer; he hadn't expected her to.

o o o

He remembers the second burn better than the first.

She makes little attempt to hide her intentions, brings a bottle of Pinot she wants the two of them to share. He takes out a pair of wine glasses and she fills them to the rim. They toast over something insignificant, nothing at all, and she clinks the glasses so hard that droplets of red drip onto his linoleum tiles. That's the only betrayal of her nervousness, as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, apologizes (for more than the stain) and reaches for a paper towel (cleans up one mess…).

She doesn't get as drunk as he does, but she doesn't need to be. When he's mumbling about phantoms and fireflies, she cajoles him to bed and climbs in beside him.

Even in his stupor, the night's events are engraved onto his brain, and he can recall with perfect clarity her hand's ministrations, her lips as they trail along his jaw, the incredibly precise motions of her tongue pressing flat against his skin only to curve again, teasing until he's losing control and his fingers grip the bedspread, nails digging for release. He grunts out her name and falls back. Breathes heavy.

She comes quietly, picks up her clothes and leaves.

Guilt strikes him immediately, but the image of her moving over him, the sound of the solitary whimper that had escaped her lips and the scent of passion fruit and ethanol vapors keeps him pinned uselessly to the bed. He stares up at the ceiling, feels the room spin, and he knows it's more than just the air of alcohol.

He's fucking his best friend.

He sees the flames of hell burning in the back of his mind.

o o o

The third burn is accompanied by a black eye. Or two.

He answers the door and she's standing there, and even in expectation of what she wants from him, he can't believe how beautiful she looks. He invites her in, smiles timidly, but there's more than that on her mind.

She doesn't even try to inebriate him this time, knows he's hooked (wonders if that makes her a cocky bitch). She shamelessly presses him against the wall, avoids his eyes as she sneaks a hand behind his head and pulls him down to meet her.

He tastes fruit and vanilla and sadness.

He tries to stop her this time. He finds it a little easier when his mind's not numbed down by alcohol, but her persistence trumps his attempts at chivalrous behavior.

"Please, Eric," she moans, tiny fingers encircling his forearms.

Her wish; his command.

A different hunger consumes her this time. She's almost crying by the time her hands slip into his boxers. Almost. If she had been, he might have had the willpower to stop her, but she isn't and her palm rolls roughly against his groin and the stars on the backs of his eyelids suppress all rational thought that his pathetic brain tries to process. And as the stars fade or fall, he sees nothing but darkness. Black.

After she leaves, he realizes that this is the way it's going to be. Helplessness burns his throat, makes him feel like coughing up blood and bile.

He can't say no, and she won't.

o o o

Eventually, he begins losing count of the number of burns.

Routine isn't the appropriate word, because he's never going to get used to the nauseating feeling at the pit of his stomach every time she leaves without a word. At work, it's all the same. Strictly business, very professional. She even teases him sometimes and there's that glimmer he misses from their nocturnal activities.

"How long're we gonna do this?" he mumbles into her hair one night.

She shifts uncomfortably in his arms. "'Til something breaks."

"I can't—" He swallows hard. "I can't separate lust from—" He doesn't finish his thought, closes his eyes and tries to concentrate on her warmth, knows she'll leave soon.

She tenses, lean muscles contracting against his naked body. She shifts again. It's humid.

Finally, she shrugs her shoulders, feeds him the nonchalance she's worked so hard to perfect. "Try harder," she says before she struggles out of his grasp and disappears into the night.

He tries. He tries to cope as her side of the bed (not really hers but still hers) slowly turns to ice and begins sucking away at his heat until he's left with nothing but goose bumps underneath frigid covers.

o o o

Two months later, she still has Speed's spare. He doesn't ask for it back and she doesn't offer, so when he wakes up in the middle of the night to someone tugging at his lips, he's no longer surprised. Still gets his heart racing, but surprise? He's outgrown that.

Sometimes, he tries to fight it, but he's weak so his protests rarely change the outcome. And somewhere past the I'm-fucking-my-best-friend thought, there's something that's always been there. He can't ignore it, doesn't want to, and in that sick, masochistic way, he hopes it never ends.

But it has to. It has to come to a head.

He pushes her away, just a little. "Calleigh," he pleads, just once, his voice jutting through like a dagger. Throat parched, he swallows. His own saliva tastes like cinder. "I can't do this anymore." He grinds it through his teeth like thick pulp.

"This is the last time." It comes out like she's announcing the weather.

For the first time, she allows him dictation. He doesn't know what to do with the reins, so it's awkward and messy, and he's sure she's uncomfortable but somewhere, he still has a fairyland fantasy that she in as deep as he is, so when she's sated and quiet in his arms, he tries to stop the bleed.

"Let me take you out to dinner," he mumbles, eyes closed in anticipation of her rejection.

She takes a moment longer than expected, and that gives him a flicker of optimism. He senses her chest rising once, twice, counts the seconds before she speaks.

"I'm not in love with you."

He can't tell if she means it or not, and it's rather a strange thing to say, but it cuts deep anyway. He licks his wounds, tries again.

"What if I told you that I—"

"You're not either." A pause, a shuffle, a palm against the chest in protest. "Eric, you're _not_." She takes in a sharp breath. "Fuck."

There's frustration but there's a struggle in her voice. Nearly imperceptible, but it's there and gives him the ammunition to continue.

He runs a thumb across her hip. "Why don't you ever stay 'til morning?"

She closes her eyes and buries her head deeper into his neck. "What are you implying?"

"Nothing." He pulls her closer, breathes in the gentle aroma of mango. "You should stay," he urges. "I want you to."

"Can't always get what you want," she mutters, lips vibrating against dark skin.

He shrugs to cover the knot in his stomach. "I wish you stayed 'til morning." Not coaxing this time, just hopeful, hoping.

She doesn't respond, but he knows she's heard him. She's thinking, and when the thoughts and unexpected emotions begin to overwhelm her, she moves to leave, but he's memorized the subtle changes and before she gets a chance to escape, he tightens his grip, holds on. She squirms, but after a moment of apprehension, she sighs loudly and relents, eases back into his embrace.

"This was just supposed to be…" She trails off, fingertips playing along the arch of his back.

"It's never been for me." Painfully honest, and there, he's laying it all out for her. Pyramid solitaire.

She winces. "Then you're insane."

He feels perspiration building up between their bodies. It still smells like the awkward sex they've had. It smells strange. It smells dirty and ugly and perfect. It is perfect.

"I wish—" He chuckles hoarsely. "I wish this meant as much to you as it means to me."

"Don't—" She chokes out a sob but passes it off as a cough. Her tone changes. "Stop it."

He burrows his face down to kiss the tip of her nose. "Stop what?"

"It," she whispers. "Stop feeling it."

"You first."

"I don't." A humorless chuckle, an incredulous scoff. "You think I—"

He shrugs his shoulders. "I wish you did," he replies sincerely.

She shakes her head violently, blond hair splaying across the sheets. "I can't." A disbelieving laugh. "This wasn't supposed to happen."

"Which part?"

She looks up; looks down instantly. "There's more than one?" she mutters.

"Which part?" he repeats, calm replaced by a desperate urgency.

She exhales, shaky, heavy. "This wasn't supposed to happen."

"You said that already," he points out like she doesn't know. He gives her a moment, then, "There's a restaurant I've wanted to try out for a while…"

"We can't go out." She leaves no room for debate.

"But this," he demands, anger rising in his chest, "is okay?"

"No." She shakes her head. "Which is why it's stopping."

"Calleigh, shit," he utters. "You don't just show up in my bed every night and—"

She's suddenly uncomfortable again, readjusts herself a few times. "I miss Tim," she offers.

"Speed's been gone for two and a half months," he retorts. "This stopped being about him a long time ago."

He's got her there, and she falls quiet again.

"This is so fucked up," she finally admits. There's a tear, rolls sideways down her face and gets absorbed by his skin.

"Will you just—" He sighs, grips her around the waist and presses. "Let me take you to dinner. See how—" He watches a second tear squeeze out from under her eyelid. He kisses it away, feeling a flame of probability igniting in his core. It's soft, bright, doesn't burn. "Take it from there."

She kisses his chest, and he waits.

Minutes become hours and neither moves. His eyes begin to drift; hers are still closed, but before sleep has a chance to overtake him, he feels a light nudge against his rib. He looks down and sees her studying his chin.

She takes a shaky breath and whispers two syllables into the air.

"Okay."


End file.
